


Three

by raging_storm



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Car Accidents, Character Death, Depression, Eventual Smut, F/M, Loss of Limbs, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Paralysis, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Sad Ending, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Build, Slurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-21 09:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raging_storm/pseuds/raging_storm
Summary: As the car comes to a resolved stop, Tyler only has one cohesive thought. The acrid smell of burning metal wafts into his nostrils; he registers shouting from the distance; and blood drips steadily from bodies that do not move.Three were taken from him.





	1. I

The first thing that happens is the world defies gravity and  _tilts._ Over and over again, spinning around like the inside of a washing machine. No one screams. That's only in movies. But mouths are wide open in horror, not understanding, they will never understand. But Tyler does, and he  _screams_ in absolute terror, a broken and high-pitched scream.

The second thing that happens is the impact. Shit doesn't move in slow motion like they want you to believe. It happens  _fast,_ and it happens  _loud._ There's a screeching noise, a sound of tearing metal, a huge crunch. They're upside down now, and he can't understand why they're not right-side up. 

The third thing that happens is mind-lock. He can't comprehend what's happening. Doesn't understand why he can't feel his arm, doesn't understand why his leg is pinned under something heavy and leather, doesn't understand why  _nobody else is moving._ Smoke and dust and an acrid smell permeates the small space. His left eye hurts, and there's blood. So much blood. 

The fourth thing that happens is denial. When it hits him that they're dead and he survived, an agonized cry is ripped from his throat. He tries to drag himself to the driver, but he's stuck. The roof has caved in and its pinning his back. He can see his friend, though. He's curled up over what used to be the steering wheel. Blood leaks from his shattered skull in a steady drip drip movement. He's dead. He's dead, and Tyler's still here. 

"No, no, please," Tyler begs, he begs and begs and nothing happens. There are sirens somewhere. They hurt his head. He begins to scream. "HEEELLP," he shouts. "PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME!" They're not screams of self-preservation. He needs to get out, get away, he's trapped in a metal box that has now become a coffin, with the corpses of three of his friends.

There's a huge ripping noise, and light floods the insides of the car. He can see firemen and policemen now. One throws the Jaws Of Life to the ground, grabbing Tyler's forearms. 

"I've got you!" he shouts. 

People are getting out of their cars now. They're stopping to watch. Some film it. He's not a film. He's just a man, a man with no friends, no band, and no life. It's over.

"Almost got you," the fireman says. "Stay with me. Stay with me. You're going to be okay."

He's not going to be okay. 

The fireman finally manages to pull him out of the ruined shell of the car with the help of another police officer. An ambulance is near; EMTs roll out a stretcher. He's facing right-side up now, finally; the tops of the trees wave to him, the blue of the sky calls to him. 

"Don't leave me," he whispers, tears staining his cheeks, as the dark envelopes him.

 


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form." - Rumi

"Dude, you suck at basketball," Tyler says to Josh; jokingly of course, because he would never truly insult his best friend. 

In retaliation, Josh sticks his tongue out as he jogs to reclaim the basketball. Having missed a three-pointer, the ball rolled down the court and now he has to go get it. "Shut up. I didn't have to shoot five hundred baskets a day."

"Practice paid off," Tyler says, and proves this by sending their basketball at the hoop. Gracefully it soars, falling gently through the rim with a swoosh. Nothing but net.

Josh grins, grabs the ball, throws it at Tyler's chest. "Showoff."

Tyler catches it with ease and sends it right back. "No, it's just skill."

"Whatever, man." Josh tries - and fails - to make another three-pointer. It clonks off the rim, over the chain link fence, and into the marsh outside the court. Josh pulls a face. "I'm not getting that."

"You suck," Tyler repeats, this time because he knows he'll end up wading through the disgusting water to fetch the ball.

They laugh.

\--

He's not going to play basketball again. Not now, not ever. Despite the fact that his skill degraded over time, he retained most of what he'd learned during adolescence. Touring and making music hampered the time he spent on basketball, but on the occasions he managed to make it to the court, often accompanied by Mark and Josh, he played well enough to live up to his own personal standards.

Now those days are over. It's not the fact that he has no skill. No. But he's changed now.

And so he watches a gaggle of teens play on a court in a park, but not as a player. Not even as a decent spectator. He can't sit on the benches, so he has to content himself with sitting underneath a large oak somewhat off to the side of the court. It's a decent view, and one where he can stay relatively out of sight while still being able to enjoy the game. He watches with a mixture of envy and sadness as he realizes that was who he was, who he can't ever be again.

Tyler figures God must be cruel to leave him alive like this. Like a fucking cripple.

His thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of his mother. Purse in hand, she was shopping at a slew of stores near the park. She left him there to watch these kids play while she shopped. 

"Have a good time?" she says now, as she lays one hand on his shoulder. She sounds upbeat and cheerful. It comforts Tyler. It sickens Tyler. But most of all, it reminds him that he's just living in a bubble. He's in limbo; a perpetual state of fake happiness. 

"It was fine," he says nonchalantly. His mother accepts this. He's allowed to be just fine. Were he upset, they'd have to talk about it, find the source, make him all better. Tyler finds that stupid. There's only one reason why he's upset, and she knows this. No reason to play therapist with him at all.

"Do you want to get back to the car yourself, or do you want me to push you?"

That might sound strange if it were directed at virtually anyone else in the park. A man walks his golden retriever there, the teens play ball here, a girl chases a butterfly next to the swing set. They all share something in common. Why would they need to be pushed? Who couldn't get back to the car on their own? They can walk!

Of course, that's the irony. Tyler is a fucking cripple!

He grips the wheels of his wheelchair until his knuckles are white. "I'll get back myself."

His mother wants to help him, but refrains from doing so. She understands how important it is for her son to take a hand in his recovery. The cast is off his arm now, but he's still weak. Or is he? They got a special set of weights in the house after the cast came off, and Tyler used them. Now he can wheel around with ease, no help required.

Sometimes he asks for help, though. But not today.

"I'll meet you back at the car," Tyler's mother tells him, and begins the trek back. She has another bag in her hand he didn't see. Something from the mall, he'd guess. He can't see the logo on the bag.

He begins the roll down. Thank God the grassy slope caters to disabled people. It has a gentle fall with a nice paved path devoid of acorns and other nasty things that his wheels can get caught on. With powerful strokes he manages to steer past the trees; past the playground; (past all the people staring at him, as if they'd never seen a man in a wheelchair under the age of thirty); and out the iron wrought gates.

His mother waits for him. She helps him in the car. After the accident, she traded in the car her husband Chris had given her after their wedding for a busted up minivan with a handicap-accessible lift. Tyler feels bad. The old car had sentimental value. His mother said nothing after giving it up, and neither did his father, but he could tell it pained them to do so.

The drive home is silent, as it usually is. Only when they pull into their driveway does Tyler's mom say something. "Your new contacts are in your bathroom," she says, then draws in a shaky breath. "I forgot to tell you last night. I picked them up from the ophthalmologist."

Contacts.

_Contacts._

He tries not to cry.

His mother catches the look on his face and her expression is horrified. "Oh, Tyler, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine," he says, cutting her off. "It's fine, it's fine, it's fine." He waves her down. "I promise, it's  _fine!"_

Her eyes are wet as she helps him out of the car. "It's hard, Tyler," she says. Sometimes she forgets. "Sometimes I forget."  _Right._

He rolls past her and into the house without a word.

They have one of those blasted stairlifts now, one of those things he thought he'd never get till he was in his eighties. There's another wheelchair on the second floor for him. He transfers out of the first one and into the lift, then slowly begins the ascent. When he reaches the top, he gets into the second chair and wheels into the bathroom. 

 _Contacts,_ he thinks dully, and reaches up a hand to touch his face. The skin around his right eye is permanently scarred; his left eyebrow has a nice scar cutting through it, sharp as sin. His fingers probe gently.

\--

Tyler saw the ophthalmologist last out of all the specialists he was made to see. They made him take another blasted eye exam just to make sure that when they manufactured the new set of contacts they were correct. 

"Cover your left eye for me, and read the third row of letters," the doctor had said, uncaring and insensitive. Tyler had cried in the bathroom after that, howls tearing from his throat as he perched on the closed toilet lid, his mother waiting in the parking lot wondering what was taking so long.

\--

Tyler reaches up to the counter at last. His hand closes around a singular case containing one contact lens. His fist clenches, and he stares at it in horror. Rather like the first time he'd woken up from a coma in the hospital and found out he'd had no left eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, not sorry.


End file.
